


Making Bipolar Disorder Your Bitch.

by MeanwhileMelody



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN, And as always just what Ian needs, And surprisingly emotionally competent, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Ian's fucked up inner monologue, Illness, M/M, Mickey being a good boyfriend, Very bad coping, choo choo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 02:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8384464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeanwhileMelody/pseuds/MeanwhileMelody
Summary: Sometimes, when he kissed Mickey, and they were pulling on their clothes too fast and too messy because there were footsteps on the stairs, he thought that, if happiness was tug of war, between him, and life, he was winning.





	

The first time that Ian Gallagher realized he was a bad person, was the first time he heard Fiona cry.

She did it quietly. She had to. It was just how it was. If the kids had heard her choking on her own sobs, they'd collapse in a puddle of tears, and then, she couldn't cry anymore. Because she had to take care of them. She always had to take care of them. And no one took care of her, either.

It was the perfect chance, though, for it to finally happen. For Ian to walk downstairs, put his arms around her, and let her cry. Not alone, for once. Let her fall apart with someone there to actually pick up the pieces after. Show her that she didn't always have to be the strongest of them all, didn't have to keep taking care of them, and sacrificing everything but her own bones.

Ian shut his eyes tight, rolled over in bed, and pretended like he didn't hear her.

And that would have been okay. Maybe. It would have been understandable, sympathetic, if only he'd been shaking and crying along with her, wishing as he tried to tune her out that she'd be okay, wondering how he could make her okay. But he wasn't doing any of those things. Instead, he had his teeth gritted hard, and his fingers curled up into fists and he was angry. So fucking angry.

Because if she had to cry, why the fuck would she do it so loud? Why the fuck would she do it out in the open, in the kitchen, where anyone could walk in, where anyone could hear. Why couldn't she just bottle that shit up, like everyone else did? Why couldn't she just cry alone, when her tears wouldn't put a twist in Ian's gut? If she needed help, she should ask for it, instead of just curling up on the cold floor and waiting for someone to listen to her, to find her, and to pick her up. 

That was why he was a bad person. Because hearing his sister's tears didn't make him empathetic, didn't make him feel anything but mad and itchy and ready to punch something. Because sometimes, when she was nagging him, or yelling at him, and he was standing there, tuning her out, he wondered if he even loved her at all.

But then, sometimes Ian wondered if he loved anyone at all. Lip, Debbie, Carl, Liam. He would be fine, without them, he thought. He'd miss them a little, maybe worry about them on Sundays and Holidays and once in a blue moon. But he wouldn't fall apart. Not like Fiona would, if she lost them. He would be just fine on his own. He was able to float away, further and further everyday, and cutting those little strings that had once attached him so firmly to his family didn't hurt at all.

He hurt, though. And it was a selfish hurt. It was a proud, angry, fiery pain. He was like a cat, licking its wounds and squalling at anyone that dared try and help him. He'd take care of it himself, or not at all. Help wasn't an option. Being weak enough to need help, wasn't an option.

That was why he'd railed so hard against the pills. He didn't need them. He wasn't pussy. He could handle this shit on his own. He could stop being sad on his own. He'd fixed himself before.

Every time something had gone wrong in his life, really wrong, terribly wrong, it had been Ian who'd fixed it. Not anyone else. When he was addicted to drugs, he detoxed. By himself. And maybe Fi or Mickey had brought him juice, and stroked his hair, but it was Ian, it had always been Ian, that would wipe his mouth when he puked for the sixth time that day, or who'd shoved his shaking hands in his pockets and just kept walking.

When he had a problem, he solved it. Problem was, the minute he solved one problem, he always seemed to create another. If he was ever doing something good, there was another fault, buried deep, waiting to just sneak up behind him, jump on his back when he wasn't looking, and devour him whole. And fuck, it was hard.

Nobody knew, how hard it was. To constantly be doing damage control. To know how that rectifying one problem would make another one worse, to know that helping this would put that in a vulnerable place, to know that one wrong calculation, and he'd be crunched up in pain for days afterwards. It was fighting. And it wasn't southside fighting, where you lashed out and hit hard and bit and scratched and writhed under your opponent like a feral animal. It was raising your fists up to protect your face and taking a beating like a champ.

And Ian was fucking tired of it, a lot of the time. Of the way that everyone in his life needed him to be okay.

They weren't the ones going insane. They weren't the ones unsafe in their own head. So fuck them. Fuck them for demanding that he needed to be healthy, that he needed to do this and to do that, and to keep fighting. He just wanted to breathe.

Drugs did that. They turned him soft and pliant and his brain shut up. Sex did that. Sex keyed him up, heated him up, and he wasn't thinking anymore, didn't have to think anymore. Ian indulged in both with reckless abandon. Anything to keep his head above water.

There were moments, he thought. Sparks. Where he felt almost normal. Like when Mickey had Yev in his lap and creamed corn dripping off his nose and Ian was laughing so hard he nearly pissed himself. He wasn't even in the water, in those moment. He was basking on the beach, getting a golden tan. Mickey always made the sun come out, just a little.

Just a little wasn't always enough.

And it was never enough to prevent hurricane season. Because that was nature, wild and uncontrollable, and the rain pounded down inside Ian's head like a migraine, and he was swallowing water and his throat was overflowing, and he couldn't find a dry, warm place to rest, ever, unless he was asleep, unless he wasn't thinking. 

When it rained, it poured. When it was sunny, it was a hundred degrees. He had no middle ground, he had no time to rest, it was a see saw of up and down. 

But not really up and down. It was more like a carousel ride. Like a horse rising and falling and going around and around and around. Flipping between angry and hurt and beaming and terrified and laughing like he couldn't stop. Laughing because it was fucking funny. Everything was fucking funny. No one else saw the humor in it.

They told him to take his pills, see a doctor, they told him to stop fucking around, that he was hurting all of them by hurting himself. It made him want to scream, and throw things. You're not hurt! He wanted to shriek. You're not hurt at all! This isn't you! You don't have to go through all this shit! You don't have to worry that you'll never be okay again! You don't have to know that everyone you love is terrified of you! You're not going through this with me, you're not doing anything. It's me. It's all me. I'm the one that has to fucking fight all the time, I'm the one that has to take the pills, I'm the one that's fucking up, it's me. It's me, it's me, it's me. Not you.

Ian might not be Lip, but he wasn't stupid, either.

He could tell you cover to cover, the logical, reasonable way to think about things. He could tell you that his family were hurting because they cared about him, because it really was hard, watching someone you love tear themselves up and leave a trail of blood and wreckage from your doorstep to their grave. He could tell you that he should be taking his pills, because they would even him out.

Even him out. What that really meant, was that they would make him a more palatable version of what he was. They would numb him up just enough that he could go to work and bring home cash, and laugh and play dutiful brother. If he found the right cocktail, maybe he'd even be able to have sex. Make Mickey happy. But that's all it was. Those pills? They were to make other people happy. Not Ian.

The pills were to turn him into what they wanted to see. An Ian that could fake being okay. 

But the truth was, he wasn't. And he wanted them to love him anyways. He wanted Mickey to grab him and kiss him, and dig his fingers deep into Ian's hip and whisper into his ear that it didn't fucking matter that Ian was crazy. That everything in their fucked up lives was crazy. That they'd deal with it. 

He wanted Fi to tell him that he wasn't Monica, he wanted Lip to clap him on his shoulder and offer him a beer no matter what pills he was on and he wanted them to all treat him like they loved him. Like he was their brother. Not this shaking, pale, paper imitation of the person they had once really, truly cared about.

He wanted the him he was now to be enough.

And he wasn't.

Maybe that should have been a tip off. A breaking point. Maybe he should have loved them enough to change. Should have put them first, should have been less selfish, shouldn't have cared about how he felt. That's what Fiona would have done. What Mickey would have done. Lip would have said fuck it all, Lip would have been able to fight it off. Lip always was stronger. Smarter.

Was it so wrong? That Ian just wanted to dance, and fuck and forget that he was broken? 

When Ian was doing terrible things, he felt a sort of strength build up inside him. You want a wreck? He would sneer, downing a pretty pink pill. You want a destroyed, dull eyed boy? You want your fucking brother? Here he is.

He wanted them to see it. How cracked he was inside. How he'd bare his teeth and stretch his lips apart, and smile so terribly, and embrace it. How he'd decide, this is who he was now. He wasn't a broken action figure who's arm could be superglued back on. He was fine. He was just different now. Just worse. And he supposed that was just how it was going to be.

Mickey didn't like it.

Ian knew Mickey didn't like it, because he felt it. He felt Mickey's eyes on him when he cracked open a beer, or laughed too loud, or slept in on the weekends. He could hear that edge in Mickey's voice whenever they talked about a subject Mickey had deemed taboo. How Mickey had stopped calling him crazy, even jokingly. And when someone who didn't know about him, didn't know that Ian was certifiable, Mickey would jab them in the stomach, glare, and snarl out a 'Watch that shit, man'. 

It was obvious, that Mickey was only trying to take care of him. But Ian didn't want it. That was never what he wanted. He didn't want to be Mickey's second kid, he wanted to be his partner, his equal. He wanted them to stand toe to toe, fist to fists, back to back. He wanted them together against the world. He wanted so badly for Mickey to think that he was strong. That he was okay. That he could be trusted on this, that he could take care of himself, fix himself. That Ian wouldn't be some burden, some liability.

Instead, Mickey went out of his way to pick Ian up when he fell down, as if Ian suddenly couldn't get up by himself. What bullshit. Ian had been getting up from his falls since he was a kid.

Sometimes Ian would lash out about it. He tossed his pills at Mickey like hitting him with something would make him get it. "I don't need them, Mickey! I don't need to be drugged up the rest of my life!"

That was a new kind of terrifying. A terrifying that they would never understand. The way it felt to start new pills, slowly losing all the color in the world. Slowly stopping being able to enjoy tv, or sex, or anything that made life worth living. They'd never understand the side effects. Constant nausea, so bad he didn't want to eat. A spinning head, migraines, forgetfulness. The nightmare that was detoxing when pills didn't work. Over and over and over again. And it might be over and over and over again until it was his life that was over.

This wouldn't ever stop. He would always have to feel this way. And that was the scariest feeling he'd ever had in his life. The knowledge had nearly destroyed him. He would never get better. Never. This wasn't a cold, this wasn't the flu. He was going to be broken forever. He was going to take a pill cocktail forever. He was going to 'manage his symptoms'. But there would be no recovery. 

He wished he had cancer, sometimes.

That was horrible. And it was wrong, and Ian didn't care. He wished he had cancer. At least then, either they cut it out in a few years, or he died. There was no life sentence. There was no constant worry, constant confusion. It was either he was sick for a while and then got better, or he died. Clear cut. It would still hurt, and it would be unspeakably awful, but either way, there would be an end in sight. Ian envied that.

He wanted a tumor. A very little one, one that didn't put his life in danger. Just something that kept him in the hospital a few days, his friends and family gathered around him, with their flowers and their balloons, and their hospital gift shop teddy bears, that still smelled of anti-septic. And they'd smile and tell him he'd be okay, and that they were sorry, and they wouldn't tell him it was his fault, that he should be fighting to get better, that he should be doing something about this. They'd just hold his hand and tell him that it was okay. That he'd get better, that someone would help him get better.

And it would be that easy. The thing would be cut out of him, and his family would welcome him home with hugs and food and there would be no more. There would be a happy ending. 

Mickey had picked up the pills Ian threw at him one by one. Picked the lint and the dust and the detritus, and he'd brought them back to Ian. Shoved the little orange bottle in his face, twisted on the child safe cover.

"Yes you do. Yes you fucking do! Can't you see how fucked up you are?"

Ian could. Ian stuck out his chin and refused to admit it. "What's wrong with me, huh? What's wrong with how I am, right now? You got a problem with me being the way I am? Then fine! Fuck you! You don't have to stay with me. You don't have to love me. You know where the door is. Don't let it hit you on the ass on your way out."

He didn't mean a word, and Mickey knew it. Mickey still took him by the collar, choked him a little, made Ian feel that burn in the back of his throat that precluded tears. "What's wrong with you? Huh? What's wrong with you is that you're bipolar!"

No one had ever said it to his face. Just whispered it behind his back. To his face it had always been gentle, quiet. beating around the bush. 'You're not well', 'You're sick'. But Mickey said it so straight out. You're bipolar, Ian. It made him rail against Mickey, push him away hard.

Mickey came ricocheting back, slamming Ian into the wall, the pills in his hand falling, scattering across the floor for the second time that day. Ian watched them impassively. "You're bipolar, and you need this." Mickey's voice was softer, and Ian's hands were shaking where they were locked onto his arms, still, unsure if he was trying to push him away or pull him closer. 

"Just because those pills are white don't mean they're a white flag, Ian. Fuck. They're not givin' up. That ain't what you're doing. Admitting you're sick ain't admitting you're weak. You use that. You use those pills. And you fucking use them to fight. Swallow them like they're fucking bullets if you gotta, man. Imagine that they're shooting every bad, hard, fucked up feeling you got in the head as they're going down, but take them. Please just fucking take them."

If he concentrated, Ian could count every eyelash on Mickey's face. He buried his head in Mickey's chest to avoid looking at them. "I don't want to do this. I don't want to get better." Because if he got better, what if he was still no good? Then, he had no excuse. 

"I don't need you to be better. You're good as you are." Mickey told him, and his voice was cigarette rough and familiar and it made Ian want to curl up in it. "I just need you to be you again. I need you to not be bipolar Ian. I need you to be Ian who is beating bipolar's ass. And I think you need that too." 

Ian was him. This, was him. And for the rest of his life, he would be Bipolar Ian. It wasn't going away. He told Mickey so, hard. Biting.

"Yeah, whatever. There's a big ass difference between Bipolar Ian, and Ian with Bipolar disorder."

And maybe that made sense. Not enough to make Ian soft and easy and ready to relent. But enough sense to make him go limp in Mickey's arms. He was always going to be sick. All his life, he was going to be like this. He didn't have a choice about that anymore. He couldn't choose to be healthy, and he couldn't do anything to make his disorder take wing and fly away.

But he could choose whether he was defined by his illness or not. Whether he gave up and let it take him, and control him like a puppeteer, or grabbed it by the balls and made it his bitch. Made it so that every time that manic laugh rose up in his throat, he could push it down. Make it so that when he was so heavy he couldn't get out of bed, he could lift that weight by himself, push and push and haul his ass out from between the covers.

He would always have to fight. 

But if there was one benefit to being born, bred, and raised southside, it was that it made him a fighter. And it made everyone he loved a fighter too. And looking at the flint hardness in Mickey's eyes, he knew. When he got too tired to fight himself, Mickey would fight with him. Two against one? Ian would take those odds.

Ian took his pills the next day.

And the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that.

He learned how to swim. Got so good at it that he could backfloat when the water in his head was rising high. He learned how to get his licks in, instead of lying down and getting kicked in the ribs by his own mind. He learned how to lean on Mickey. And Mickey learned how to relax, how to let Ian work through things himself, how to compromise, and back off, and not play nanny.

They learned. They fought. They kissed with blood on their teeth. And they made it out alive.

Ian had thought that managing his symptoms would never be enough to let him be happy again. He was wrong, though. Because happiness wasn't measured like that. Happiness wasn't measured in what could be, what would be. Happiness was what was. Happiness was how Mickey smiled right now, right this second. Happiness was how Yev's chubby sausage fingers wrapped around his pinky, how Fiona hugged him so hard his bones creaked, happiness was sharing a cig with Lip and punching him in the arm and chasing Carl around the backyard, going with Debbie to the mall to pierce her nose. It got infected a week later and he had to pry it out with tweezers. She punched him in the ear. Liam laughed like it was the funniest thing ever, and they all worried that he was growing up with a taste for violence.

Happiness came hard. Happiness didn't come often. But Ian had it. And he was holding on so hard his knuckles went white.

Sometimes, when he kissed Mickey, and they were pulling on their clothes too fast and too messy because there were footsteps on the stairs, he thought that, if happiness was tug of war, between him, and life, he was winning.

He was winning by a landslide.


End file.
